Wundervölker, Monstrosität und Hässlichkeit im Mittelalter (German Edition)

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While there are many books out there to help you find spiritual satisfaction, pdf book has a very unique viewpoint. Super Ghouls'n Crew. Nagi decides to be serious about becoming a manga artist, with the help of an already popular mangaka and her friends. Now we can go a step further, and instigate crying jags instantaneously with the help of viral YouTube videos.

If two species, divided by size alone, could embrace each other, what was our problem as humans? They were inseparable and appeared like lovers from another lifetime. The viral video that had viewers wiping tears from their necks showed a distraught Tarra, grieving for the company of her dear dog who had suffered a spinal cord injury and was unable to walk. As Bella was recovering in the sanctuary office, Tarra kept vigil for three weeks, until her best pal was carried down to her enclosure. I have probably watched the video 30 times. Today, my friend Karen sent a link about the tragic news of Bella.

Tuesday morning Bella was missing, and sanctuary staff initiated an immediate search that continued until Wednesday. Her body was found near a barn that Tarra and five other elephants share. Scott , determined that Bella was a victim of an animal attack, most likely coyote. There are parts of the story that will never be known.

Did Tarra witness the attack? Did she arrive too late and in her desperation to protect Bella, carry her from the awful scene? The anger she would have in herself for not saving Bella. The rage she would have that a precious life and friendship could be severed so unexpectedly. Concrete evidence exists that elephants mourn. They experience debilitating sorrow and have their own funeral rites. National Geographic has documented elephants in Kenya as they discover matriarchal bones by a water source.

Silently, they created a defensive circle and then elaborately touched the surface of the sacred bones before them, every crevice and notch. They held the bones in their trunks and touched them gently with their hind feet. Similarly, a BBC documentary showed a herd that happened upon an elephant corpse. It was as though they were paying homage to the deceased with closed eyes and complex thought.

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They fondled the bones in a way that indicated they were fully aware of not just life, but death. Tarra was given the opportunity to pay her last respects to Bella, but showed little interest. This is why staff suspect that she may have already said her goodbyes, having endured the night with the knowledge that her friend had passed on to another world.

Their relationship is a confirmation that regardless of our species, we are intimately connected. It would be ignorant to think that only humans could experience the crisis and hollowness of a life lost. Dog, elephant, man—we are sharing a fragile planet. Our relationships to and with each other define us. They evolve and present a continual opportunity to change, and be better. When we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, remarkable things can happen. My down duvet and the darkness are holding me hostage. I set my alarm forward to what I hope is 15 more minutes and not 15 hours. The subway rumbles by, as it does.

Behind my house the incessant jackhammering in the underground parking garage is already full tilt. The upstairs tenant is busy doing her usual morning laps on the hardwood in army boots. I pull on a hoodie, do a visual weather check and in one swoop turn on my laptop, the gas fireplace and the left stove burner for the kettle. Scooping towers of coffee grounds into my Bodum I start thinking about how different mornings were in the Congo.

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Coffee was not a leisurely event with a daily paper spread out before me. In the Congo, provided there was electricity, coffee happened quickly as there were 23 chimpanzees patiently waiting at the sanctuary for hot milk. My alarm routinely sounded at 5 am, not am as my Toronto life permits.

I felt like a wayward Starbucks barista in Africa. Dozens of one litre plastic bottles dominated the space beside the sink in the crowded prep kitchen. The six youngest chimps had their own personal bottles with pacifier tops as they were still bottle fed. However, pre-sunrise and bleary-eyed, I was stationed in the kitchen, boiling water, carefully measuring honey, propolis, vitamins and powdered milk into a narrow funnel. This was serious business.

Chimps are as particular as we are; if the milk was too hot or too cold, they pushed it away in disgust. Not enough honey or too much propolis and they balked. Tall, full-fat, no-whip, extra honey or else! The adults accepted the warm milk poured into tin cups with handles in a semi-mannerly way. The shrill feeding time pant-hoots and excited displays were deafening. As I plunge the French press and pour my first cup I stand in two worlds, as I often do. All I have to do is look at the enlarged photos hanging on the wall in my kitchen.

I step into a sunrise in Masai Mara and stare into the eyes of two curious Congolese children. I wait for my bagel to toast with crossed arms. I miss waking Micah, the youngest chimp.

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She stayed with us at the house near the sanctuary because the July nights were too cold, and she was already suffering from bronchitis. Micah slept in a large dog-type carrier, swathed in blankets, in a tiny t-shirt to keep her core warm. She would gently coo and begin to blink at the light as I folded the blankets back that kept the carrier dark.

As I unlocked the carrier door, she instantly reached out for my neck as though it were a tree trunk and gripped me tightly. Her body would be so warm from sleep. Her diaper would be soggy, but, in that moment, she could do no wrong. Minutes later she would be on a tear. Changing her diaper would turn into a chase scene. The cat would be hiding behind the curtains avoiding unexpected tail yanks.

Micah would appear with matches in her mouth. A bar of soap. My lip balm. Red paint—from where? I never found out. I pour more coffee and add too much cream. The chimps would send it back. Micah would have her fingers in my mug already, threatening to tip the contents, her eyes hovering just above my counter, scanning. She would love my barstools—four of them to swing between. My cowhide rug would have tiny chimp teeth marks at its edge. The wine bottles tucked in the recycling bin would be out and rolling around after she sipped the last sips.

Grabbing the peanut butter from the middle drawer I see all the things Micah would ransack in less than a minute. Spaghetti noodles, oatmeal, popcorn, Nutella. She was a sucker for sweets and would be in the fridge searching for cordial or Coke. Her guilty face and temporary disappearance always gave her away. I should be getting ready for work but somehow find myself scrolling through my Congo photos instead.

Here, I lie supine and allow the lake to pull my mind away. The trembling aspens rustle and cicadas buzz at a pitch that is more of an alarm to me—summer is already gathering up its carefree days in fast pursuit of the fall. The sun is already setting a minute earlier each night. Yesterday the sun set at , tonight, While the sun was still blistering hot and turning the pale-skinned gingers into Maine lobsters, I snapped open a beer.

October 1964

The bathtub-warm Mill Street Lemon Tea beer was effervescent in my mouth, and the tepid temperature hurled me several latitudes over, to Simba beers in the Congo sun. A Porter jet took to the sky with a distant growl—Boston? New York? It banked and slid into the atmosphere and pillowy clouds beyond the aspens above my head. I dog-eared the 37 th page of The Outport People , a book about the zany brood that breathe life into a seemingly uninhabitable island called Baleena. There are no roads, no cars, no telephones. My mind was already in too many places to focus on Newfoundland.

Just one year ago I was popping the remaining Malarone anti-malarial pills out of their foil seal into my cupped hand, sad to see the numbers dwindle by day. I was desperate to take in all that surrounded me. The chimp I held in my arms would be a mighty adult next time I saw her. She would no longer be gently accepting spoonfuls of strawberry yogurt and sucking on warm milk sweetened with honey. In a year, she would find her place among the troop, no longer coddled and fussed over as the babe in arms. A year ago I was running around the fairways of the Lubumbashi Golf Course, listening to the same songs on my iPod that fuel my route through Riverdale Park and along the Don River in Toronto today.

Chantal would meet me after my run and we would sit in the still of the morning, watching the copper mine bigwigs teeing off in ill-fitting plaids and stripes. More often it was the wives of the bigwigs in wide-brimmed hats and equally wide-rimmed sunglasses. I was leaving, again. And returning. And leaving. My brain needed sutures to hold everything I had seen together. My passport felt heavier with the miles that it had permitted.

I landed in Toronto, elated and exhausted. I shared startling stories with my parents like a kid strung out on Halloween candy. I pulled up the photos on my laptop and sat in disbelief that I had actually been to such a place. I described each of the chimps, all 23, their names, their quirks. We drank champagne in my parents zen backyard with Yanni and the babbling fish pond and citronella candles creating a path that replicated a parade of fireflies. The humming mosquitoes were a nuisance, but not a constant worry like their African counterparts. A year ago, and a week from now, I was in BC.

The snow on Mt. I was coming home, but felt split between the provinces and the peace found in the burning sunsets of the Congo. Home was a sharp slap of reality. My stories stalled in the face of Mila, the most darling lab in the world. She was dying and I felt like I had five hearts beating in my chest, and still, not enough blood for all my limbs.

I unpacked from Africa, and packed again for Toronto. For good. A once familiar life and routine was dissolving and passing through my hands that could only grasp the immediate moment. I spent hours in the grass with Mila, crying like a fool, begging her to slip away. It would be okay. Both of us, I think.

I felt like I had live goldfish living in my stomach. My eyes burned like they were full of poison ivy. A year ago and a week from today, I wondered what was right. What was wrong? Nothing felt right, even my skin felt unfamiliar over my bones. And I touched down at Pearson a week later. Mila died the very next day. And I return. To Lake Ontario, with my feet in the sand. I see the quarry and all of the Congo. My mind revisits the year and all the geography in between. I am lucky not for what I have seen, but for what I have felt. Just this. An "eco-tourism lodge attraction" in the Congo.

My original intention was to Google the story about the 32 monkeys that died when a Nevada lab overheated. An article on Foxnews. In , Charles River housed over 10, primates at their facility alone. Henry L. Foster bought a Maryland rat farm for breeding purposes. Later, on a trapping expedition in the Himalayas, Foster returned to the states with several Rhesus monkeys to create a quick-breeding stock of The monkeys were bred on two Florida islands where workers captured a year to be sold to labs worldwide.

Curious and appalled, I clicked on it. Monkeys for sale in Canada? The Northern Exotics site also boasted Jamaican Fruit bats, armadillos, sugar gliders and Fennec foxes. The primatestore. There were several listings for chimps in Texas and Ohio.

One of the links led me to a SPCA report on the rescue of Henry, a year-old chimp who was found at an emaciated 60 pounds half the body weight of a healthy chimp in a cage so small that it caused him severe spinal deformities. The cage was littered with empty soda cans and cigarette butts. I remember the day Chantal, Sevrine and I were driving out to a quarry for a picnic in the Congo. We saw a sinewy Congolese boy in his early teens at the roadside. As our vehicle approached he lifted a dik dik in the air a dik dik is a small, antelope-like animal.

He began shouting at us as we slowed down. The dik dik was for sale. The image of the dik dik still haunts me, as does the arrival of Ikia, the chimp who was flown to the J. She arrived dehydrated and limp-bodied, and died less than 12 hours later in the arms of Augustin. Writing this post, I feel the dull pulse of a headache. I need Jane Goodall on speed dial.

Chimps and monkeys are not intended as pets. The chimp was eventually shot by police due to his aggression. I returned to the article on the Nevada research monkeys that were killed by human error. The company was charged just last year when a monkey was scalded to death after it was accidentally sent through an automatic cage washer.

Andrew Westoll, author of The Riverbones had posted the original article on his Facebook profile page. Westoll, a former biologist and primatologist who decided to focus on his dynamic writing talent is to publish Thirteen Chimpanzees in the spring of The thirteen chimps he writes about have spent decades in US biomedical research labs and have now found a safe haven at the Fauna Foundation in Quebec. The chimps share the farm with over a hundred other rehabilitating animals rescued from the entertainment industry, research labs or agriculture.

Fauna is their forever home. I clicked on the chimp In Remembrance page, knowing that I would be inconsolable. She learned to ride a bike and how to play the guitar. In her last five years at a lab, she was used in HIV studies that involved lymph node and bone marrow biopsies. Following one intervention, she actually went into shock from the pain.

I read about Pablo who chewed off one of his fingers, clearly the direct result of being darted over times, enduring 30 biopsies and being injected with 10, times the lethal dose of HIV. In , Annie was stolen from her family in Africa. She became part of the circus before spending 21 years in the lab as a breeder. Billy was often found having panic attacks so violent that he would be left convulsing.


His teeth had been knocked out by a crow bar. After 15 years in the entertainment industry, he was knocked out times for 40 liver and lymph node biopsies. Jean was inoculated with HIV after several cervical biopsies. After a nervous breakdown she removed all of her fingernails. It was an expose of the bear bile and bear part trade industry in China.

There are currently 7, bears on bear bile farms in China, caged and exploited for their bile which is used in traditional Chinese medicine. In the15 years since I wrote that article, the farms have grown in size and production. In the documentary The Cove I watched the waters of Taiji, Japan turn scarlet red with the slaughter of dolphins.

Over 20, dolphins and porpoises are killed every year, driven to shore by the fishing boats where they are harpooned. Due to suffocating media pressure and response to the documentary, Taiji actually called for a temporary ban on killing bottlenose dolphins.

The news seems to be littered with abominable stories of animal abuse lately. Like the 11 rare Siberian tigers who died at a zoo in Beijing. There is speculation that zoos in China may be deliberately breeding more animals than they can afford, selling the carcasses to the black market for use in traditional medicines and liquor.

An article in the Hamilton Spectator reported the tigers starved to death, having been fed nothing but chicken bones. Since, there have been reports of tiger farms steeping the bones of deceased tigers in liquor which is then sold to visitors. There are Siberian tigers left in the wild, 50 in China.

Five thousand more live in captivity on farms and wildlife parks across China. However, there is hope. Jane Goodall says so. She is lecturing in Toronto next week, celebrating the 50 th anniversary of her plight to bring the story of her chimps in Gombe, Tanzania to the world.

Her message is uplifting, and instils motivation. As we think of their lonely end, may we be inspired to work harder to prevent others suffering a similar fate. Please watch The Cove. Read about the Flora Foundation. Buy tickets to see empowering speakers like Jane, a woman who has given her life to a crusade that should remind us all of the fragility and interconnectedness we share with animals on this Earth. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. The Golden Globes are always a convincing force, pushing everyone else into the theatres to see the greedy award-grabbers like Avatar , The Hangover and Up in the Air for themselves.

So I went, because I like to be pop-culturally informed. In fact, being grounded leaves him unbalanced and twitchy. However, when love tempts him, he begins to reconsider his whole life. Maybe everyone else has it right. Maybe love, permanency and a home with a full fridge and drawers is attractive and natural. He had no baggage other than what he checked in at the airport. Or did he? His motivational speeches on the absurd weight of the physical and emotional baggage that we carry turns as flat as an open Coke left on the counter overnight.

When he meets his match in Alex Goran Vera Farmiga , Bingham re-evaluates his life spent in the sky, travelling days of the year. The movie should have convinced the audience that baggage is good. It represents a life well-lived, friends and partners well-loved, dogs, cats, the whole sloppy and gorgeous mess. So, why did I find myself in the travel section of Indigo Books minutes after the movie ended?

Up in the Air reminded me of the anticipation that pulsates in airports. I pulled a guide book from the shelf on volunteer opportunities abroad and decided to play a game with myself. I let the book fall open to a random page, and decided that would be my next destination. I averted my gaze to avoid cheating myself.

Many of the elephants are rescued in an injured state from poaching activity, as seen with one individual who arrived with only one tusk. Mornings begin with car-washing the elephants in the river. Lions roam over large areas of terrain, competing for food with any number of other predators. Masai herd their cattle over large areas of terrain.

Thus it has been for centuries. The Masai are beautiful living people who somewhat fewer people from all over the world want to come and gape at. Many hard working, well intentioned people are trying to help resolve this conflict of interest. But it raises, once again, the question we run into frequently in our travels: who does the natural world exist for? For the people who live there—have always lived there? Even when they become…inconvenient? Or the animals who also, have always lived there—but like their adversaries, are under threat, can no longer survive without the intervention of usually pale skinned experts in comfortable shoes?

One would have to be truly monstrous to suggest that one be sacrificed for the other. But the slow grind of history is already making that decision for us—and the outcome is often not pretty. Where is that line, that balance between the needs of man and that of the incredible, graceful, terrible, gorgeous creatures who still manage to survive in what passes for the wild?

And believe me, we did it right.